


The Secret Garden

by SomewhereApart



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, OQ Advent 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 11:53:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17385998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomewhereApart/pseuds/SomewhereApart
Summary: With Christmas of the Missing Year approaching, Regina finds herself looking for a little solitude to nurse the grief of missing her son. What she finds is even better. For the Outlaw Queen Advent Calendar 2018.





	The Secret Garden

There had been an evening during the Missing Year, just before Yule, that she’d allowed herself a moment of weakness and gotten a holiday celebration in return.

She’d been missing Henry, and Snow had been far too chipper, planning a Yule Ball to lift everyone’s spirits. She’d been chattering nonstop about tall pine trees, and blown glass baubles, and handcrafted snowflakes to be made by the castle’s younger denizens. Filling up their council meetings with talk of gingerbread loaves, and sugar cookies, and peppermint sticks. She’d even suggested a Secret Santa.

“People need something to look forward to in all this stress!” she’d insisted.

Regina hadn’t been looking forward to the holiday; she’d been dreading it. Christmas without Henry wasn’t Christmas at all, and no amount of the mulled cider the princess was planning to serve would be enough to drown her misery.

Just the talk of the holiday had made her irritable (she’d heard more than one person mutter something about her being a Grinch or a Scrooge—or rather, happened upon someone explaining what those words meant to one of the Left Behind). When Snow had interrupted a shockingly productive council meeting meant to address The Zelena Problem with an impulsive request to have Regina enchant the palace’s Christmas trees with magical snow, she’d finally reached her limit.

She’d stared wordlessly at the princess for a moment, then bit, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware this was a prom committee meeting. I thought we were discussing the imminent danger at hand—at least that’s what Robin was discussing before you so rudely _interrupted him_.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she’d seen both Robin’s impressed smirk and the surprised lift of David’s brows—if she was defending the thief, things really were dire.

Snow had gone just a touch pink, but stood her ground, brushing invisible lint from the tabletop and saying primly, “We’re here to discuss many things, and the thought simply… occurred to me. I didn’t want to forget—pregnancy brain, you know.”

“What was your excuse before? Stupidity?” she’d lobbed back, earning a quiet, chiding mutter of her name from David. She’d grit her teeth, eyes still on Snow as she answered, “No, I won’t be making you any fake snow. Or anything else. Or even attending your silly Yule ball, for that matter. You can throw your little holiday party on your own; I have no desire to—“

“Oh, come on, Regina,” Snow had sighed, barely ruffled by Regina’s insults (it was hardly the worst thing she’d ever said to her, she supposed). “You need to at least make an appearance; you’re the monarch. You missed Thanksgiving _and_ All Hallows’—”

“And why do you think that is?” she’d growled, traitorous tears welling in her eyes and driving her to her feet. “I’m in no mood to celebrate, and certainly not _this_ holiday, not without my son. So count me out.”

Her voice had stayed strong (thank God), and while she would have much preferred to turn on her heel, stalk to the chamber doors, and let them shut behind her with a satisfying bang, she’d settled for disappearing in a swirl of purple smoke. It was faster, and the tears had been perilously close to falling.

She hadn’t gone to her chambers (that was the first place Snow would look), or even her vault (that would be the second). Instead, she’d chosen the walled garden on the north side of the castle. It had become her private retreat since the castle became so overrun with bodies—enchanted to look from the outside like it was unkempt and overgrown. A project someone really ought to get around to, but for some reason every time someone thought to tend it, they’d remember some other task or conversation that needed attention (another trick of magic).

Inside, it was lush and trimmed, tall willows and flowering rose bushes, climbing ivy and beds of flowers. Statues, and a birdbath, a modest fountain, and a few shady benches on which she’d passed many a quiet afternoon when the weather was warm. On the far end, near one of the ivy-covered walls, sat a tiny gardener’s hut that provided protection from rain or cold—or snow, in today’s case. It’s coming down in thick flakes, the air chilly and damp, sticking to her skirts and her lashes as she walks the few feet from where she’d appeared to the door of the hut.

It’s not particularly warm inside either, but that’s an easy fix—she tosses a smokeless ball of flame into the little hearth and changes from her more lavish gown to velvet and furs before dropping into the armchair near the fire to soak up its warmth and brood. The tears begin to fall immediately, but she doesn’t mind them now. She’s alone, and to be frank, crying alone has become rather a specialty of hers over the years.

She could stay here for hours and not be found. Maybe all day. Hell, she could spend the night and not be bothered—in fact, maybe she’ll stay here until after that damnable Yule Ball. Screw keeping up appearances; she can easily sneak food from the kitchens and hibernate the winter away. She can turn the padded bench along the far wall into a proper (albeit small) bed, and eat at that little table a few feet away.

It’s strewn with wood shavings, she notices—annoyed for a moment, but only a moment. There’s a little carved squirrel in the center of it, and a horse, and a few of something small and round all lined up in a row. She summons one of those, too lazy to move (her feet are warm now, but her heart is heavy, her cheeks wet). It looks like, well, a crude breast is the first thing that comes to mind, but as she turns it over in hand, she realizes it’s an acorn. The top is sheared flat; it had been sitting on it, upside down.

Robin has been here. With Roland, no doubt. Her protective enchantment hadn’t accounted for curious little boys who wanted to explore the rough bramble rather than tame it (an oversight she’s since fixed, but the damage had already been done). She doesn’t mind sharing her secret garden with the thief and his son, though—they at least have a healthy respect for the greenery and the good sense to leave her be when she desires.

Usually, anyway.

Today, it seems, is a different story.

It’s been at least thirty minutes but not yet an hour, she thinks, when she hears the door creak open.

At least she’s stopped crying.

Regina looks up from her chair, the little acorn still in her hand, her fingers exploring its smooth curves and rough hatching, and there he is. The thief. Carrying a little rucksack and an expression far too sympathetic for her liking.

“I thought I might find you here,” he tells her gently—too gently; she doesn’t want his pity.

Regina sighs, and murmurs, “I should strengthen that enchantment.”

Robin only smirks, setting the sack on the table. He notices the gap amongst his carvings where the missing acorn should be and pauses for a moment, hesitant when he spies it in her hand. He recovers quickly though, unpacking a bottle of wine and a wrapped round of cheese and some cured meat. A handful of apples.

“I thought you might want to skip luncheon,” he tells her, holding out the bottle and offering, “And perhaps indulge in a drink?”

Regina can’t bring herself to wipe the scowl from her face, but she does reach out and grab the bottle from him, muttering, “You thought right,” before uncorking it with a wave of her hand and lifting it to her lips for a deep gulp. He’s chosen a good bottle—something from the private stores, by the taste of it. She frowns down at the label and then at him. “Stealing from me, I see?”

“Stealing _for_ you,” he reasons, a loaf of bread on the table now as well. “You wanted me to bring you swill?”

“Nothing in this castle is swill,” she counters.

“Are you sure about that, Your Majesty?” It doesn’t escape her notice that he’s using her title; clearly her little show earlier had been far too vulnerable. “You’ve not tasted the red they served with dinner last night. It certainly shed light on why the mead is so popular.”

“Because you’re a bunch of forest-dwelling heathens?”

“Yes, that exactly,” he teases, his acquiescence both a balm and an irritant. She prefers when he argues with her, when he meets her barb for barb and keeps her on her toes.

She doesn’t like the mollycoddling.

“There’s no need to be overly kind to me, _thief_ ,” she bites at him. “I’m not some pathetic woodland creature you need to rehabilitate.”

“No, you’re not pathetic in the least,” he tells her with ease, and a painful amount of warmth. “Nor would anyone ever mistake you for a creature of the forest, I assure you. I imagine you were born and bred for life in a castle.”

He has no idea.

She turns away from him, then, takes another swig of wine to wash down the bitter taste of a life stolen away from the moment she was born.

“But the others… they don’t always think,” he says, in that same soft overly-kind tone, settling into one of the chairs around the table and using the small carving knife there to slice off several hunks of cured meat as he speaks. “After I lost Roland’s mother, there were so many moments—milestones, and celebrations, and the like—where I wanted to be joyful except I couldn’t help but feel the empty place she’d left. She should have been there, and that she wasn’t made everything dimmer. How could I enjoy the festival of hearts when my own love was gone? Or revel in Roland’s first birthday when his mother wasn’t there to see the day? Or his first steps?”

She keeps her gaze from his, settles it on the flames in the hearth and stares hard, vowing to use that as an excuse if he sees the way her eyes are watering.

“I can’t imagine how much more difficult it would have been if it had been Roland I’d lost, or if I’d thought myself alone.”

She blinks and one escapes. Regina lifts a hand to swipe it away and then curses herself internally; there’s no hiding _that_.

“You’re not alone, Regina,” he tells her, little more than a whisper, when she stays silent too long. Her gaze slides to him, baleful, then away again when he adds, “There are people here who love you—even if they can’t understand you.”

Twin tears leak out, tiny traitors trekking down her cheeks and forcing her to brush them away and sniffle in a way that is entirely unregal—a fine precursor to the way her voice wobbles as she says, “She’s lost family, too. Both of her parents, and now her daughter. She should know better. Why isn’t _she_ … suffering?”

Snow should be grateful for the curse, Regina thinks suddenly. She should be grateful, because clearly the brief time they had together wasn’t enough for Snow or Charming to develop the deep attachment to their child that comes with raising them. It can’t have been, because they should feel this same cracked-open feeling that Regina does. They should ache at the thought of decorating pine trees and sugar cookies and paper snowflakes, but they don’t—clearly they don’t.

Once again, life is cruelly unfair, and it’s Regina who falls on the wrong side of fate.

“If I had to wager a guess, milady, it would be that she draws comfort from those around her. From surrounding herself with people, and merriment, and balls. While you draw comfort from solitude. You’re different, that’s all.”

He’s right about that, she thinks darkly. They couldn’t be _more_ different, her and Snow. And yet…

She’s throwing herself quite the pity party—she must be—because the next thing she says is, “One draws comfort from what is made available to them. I was never given much of a choice in the matter.”

“You’ve a choice now,” he reasons. Regina scoffs wetly before turning to shake her head at him.

“Do I?” she shoots back, all challenge. “And who I am to confide in? To seek comfort from? One of the dwarves? Or perhaps some of the villagers I cursed for three decades? Or maybe those I left behind in a ravaged land to fend for themselves against untold horrors and my mother?”

The thief only smirks, shaking his head and pointing out, “I see you’ve managed to conveniently omit those who are closest to you—the Prince and Princess, for one.”

“That’s two,” she points out cattily, wiping at another stupid tear and taking a deep breath in an attempt to quell its fellows. “And anyway, they’d only try to to throw platitudes or pity at me—or throw me a ball, it seems. None of that helps. I can’t… be open with them.”

“You can be open with me,” he tells her, and she scoffs because that is simply what they do. She, at least, will play her role tonight as rehearsed.

“And what would I say?”

“Is it another holiday for children?” he wonders, an abrupt change in topic but not an unwelcome one. “Like the Hallows?”

She thinks of another night, not too long ago. Sitting beside him in a stable, playing with a tiny black kitten that is at this very moment no doubt curled up in front of the fires in her room (she couldn’t stay here alone until Yuletide, after all—she’d have to at least emerge to coax the kitten into the garden with her). She’d told him Halloween was for children in their land, not for the honoring of those lost as it always had been here.

“It is, in a way,” she answers. “There’s a religion there that’s co-opted the pagan roots of the holiday—the depth of winter and the coming of the light and all that.”

“The same one with the chocolate rabbits in the spring?”

“Yes,” she chuckles, remembering having to explain the logic behind _that_ one (mostly to Roland, as he’d wanted to know what a dead man had to do with the colored eggs they’d been served at breakfast) as well as how perplexed he’d looked as she’d tried.

It occurs to her then that she seems to be in the habit of spending holidays with this man—or near-holidays anyway. She’d shut herself away for the Easter egg roll itself, and Christmas is still a week away.

Close enough, though.

He’s found her in quiet moments of grief for nearly every day of celebration (he’d even caught her pilfering the scraps of Thanksgiving turkey from the kitchens). Something about the realization warms her heart. He’s been a tiny balm to her pain, drawn her out of herself when she’d needed it most, and for a moment she feels a swell of affection for him that seems out of sync with all this pain she’s been wallowing in.

It’s unexpected but not unwelcome, she decides. She’s so exhausted—so _tired_ of the pain—that she decides to lean into it, if only for a moment.

Perhaps she’s not alone, after all.

So she shifts in her chair, turns herself toward him just a bit more, his little carved acorn still clutched in her fist as she tells him, “Yuletide is when we celebrate the Savior’s birth—although I have no idea why, because apparently He was born in the spring. He was attended by lambs.”

She watches Robin’s brow furrow again, and grins. “Lambs?”

“He was born in a barn,” she shrugs. “Lambs, cattle, camels, you name it.”

“What are camels?” Robin questions, and she realizes he’s likely never seen or heard of one.

She waves it away, tells him, “I’ll draw one for you—badly—someday. Anyway, we celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ by telling our children that a jolly fat man in a suit flies all around the world in a magical sleigh pulled by reindeer to bring them presents if they’re well-behaved, and coal if they’ve been naughty.”

His brow knits tighter. “The Savior can fly? And punishes children?”

“No, no,” she smirks. “Different guy. Jesus was the Savior; we have a little pageant down at the local chapel and tell the story of His birth, and sing songs and all that. Santa Claus—or Father Christmas or Old Saint Nick or whatever you want to call him—is the one with the flying and the presents.”

“And they’re related how?”

“They’re really not,” she shrugs, realizing suddenly that her tears have dried, replaced with the humor of trying to explain centuries of melded winter holiday culture to a man who’s never seen a television nor enough electricity to power the Macy’s holiday windows. “A bunch of different holidays and myths all got melded together into one, and we ended up with Christmas. Before Henry, I enjoyed it for the aesthetics—they string fairy lights along the buildings, and decorate pine trees with glass ornaments and ribbons and garlands, and there’s snow blanketing everything. It’s beautiful.”

“Much like Yuletide here.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “I suppose it always reminded me a bit of home. But once I had a child…” Regina fiddles with the acorn again, lifts it and studies it and rolls it between her fingers as she speaks. “It became about Santa Claus, and magic reindeer, and opening presents on Christmas morning. Sprinkling reindeer food on the front lawn, and leaving out milk and cookies in case Santa got hungry when he stopped to leave the presents. It was never _special_ until Henry, and now… We never had a big family to celebrate Thanksgiving, or Easter, or Independence Day. He deserved better than I could give him for all of those, but Christmas… Christmas was magical even if it was just the two of us, and without him here, I…”

The tears well again, making the back of her throat tight, but she tells herself not to let them fall. She’s cried enough (she will never cry enough).

So all she says is, “Without Henry, I just don’t see the point. There’s no joy left in it.”

Robin stares at her for a moment, with a look of too much sympathy and an expression like he’s trying to come up with the right thing to say to ease her mind. There’s nothing he can say, no solution that will heal this, so she doesn’t give him a chance to try (and fail).

Instead she tosses him the acorn, and asks, “What’s this, then?” before she rises from her chair to join him at the little table.

She swears she sees his cheeks go pink (although that could just be a trick of the light), as he dismisses, “Oh, just a little something I’ve been working on for Roland’s Yule gift.”

He fiddles with the acorn, then places it back amongst its fellows as Regina sets the bottle of wine between them and reaches for one of the hunks of meat. (The first salty, delicious bite reminds her body that it is terribly hungry after all, and she’s grateful for his relentless kindness once again.)

“It’s a chess set,” he explains. “Or it will be. These are the pawns.”

It’s so very him, so very them—simple, and rustic, but not at all unattractive or unskilled. Regina can’t help but smile, reaching for the tiny squirrel to give it a look. It’s roughly carved, but quite cute—even more so now that she knows its intent.

“What’s this, then?”

“A knight.”

She chuckles and sets the squirrel back on the table, then reaches for the carving knife and the cheese. “You’ve quite a ways to go if this is everything,” she tells him, but Robin only shrugs.

“I sneak down here when I’m able—while he’s off playing, or after he’s gone to sleep. There’s nearly a fortnight before the solstice; I’ll have time.”

“I could help,” she offers. “Carve one of each piece, and I can replicate them for you quick as a cat.”

Robin smiles at her then, one of the good ones, the warm ones that reach his eyes and make his dimples pop. He toys with an acorn for another moment and then tells her, “I appreciate the offer, but it seems rather like cheating.”

“Call it using the resources available to you,” she shrugs. “Or cashing in a favor.”

“And what, pray tell, might a lowly thief like me have done to earn the favor of a queen?” he wonders, abandoning the acorn for a hunk of meat himself. “After all, you’ve already paid me in arrows.”

“That was for the B&E. This would be for…” She glances away, down, studying the wood grain of the table and the smattering of shavings there as she says, “...ensuring that I’m not alone. And making me smile when I think it’s impossible.”

It’s far too honest for her liking, and he’s silent for a moment after, his lack of answer making her cheeks heat. And then his hand falls over hers, warm and reassuring, as he tells her, “You don’t owe me a favor for friendship, milady. You owe nothing, except perhaps the same back in kind.”

Her chin wobbles, once, before she schools her features again, squares her chin and teases, “You think we’re friends, do you, thief?”

“I know we are,” he answers with a smirk she finally has the guts to meet. “And if I’m not mistaken, I think you may finally be catching up to the realization.”

Regina scoffs, and disentangles their grasp, swatting at his hand and taunting, “Just in time for you to ruin it all with your cheek, I see.”

Robin only grins and reaches for the wine.

She watches him drink, watches the line of his throat as he swallows. He really is insufferably handsome. He should be spending his time with someone more worthwhile. Someone worthy of him. Someone not her.

“You have poor taste in friends,” she tells him, attempting to bury self-loathing beneath levity.

Robin rights the wine and insists, “I beg to differ. Who else will teach my son about the jolly fat man and the Savior baby?”

“I’m sure Snow would be overjoyed at the chance.”

“Don’t be silly. She’s too busy planning a ball.” Regina lets out a rather unladylike snort and pops a slice of cheese into her mouth. As such, she’s chewing when he tells her, “And besides, I think I’d prefer a quieter holiday. If you’d be willing, I might like to enlist your help in introducing Roland to the magic of Christmas. I’m terribly certain I’d get the story all wrong.”

She knows what he’s trying to do—they both do—and while his heart is in the right place, she can’t bear the thought of stealing that cherub-cheeked child away from what is sure to be a lavish Yuletide in the castle just to ease her broken heart.

“He should be with his family—with your men,” she tells Robin gently. “Christmas is about family.”

“I thought it was about magic, and flying thingamajigs. And you know more than anyone else about magic—and about Christmas with young boys.”

She turns her attention to the cheese, slices off a piece, another, a third. She should say no. She’ll be poor company anyway, and she’s not entirely sure that spending the holiday with Roland won’t just sharpen the ache of missing Henry.

But then, she’s thought that other times. Has had dark moods, heavy afternoons spent in this garden, brooding up at the ivy, missing her son, and then found herself smiling when Roland came barreling in, all joyful boyish exploration, oblivious to her blue mood.

It could be nice, she supposes. A little Christmas, just the three of them. Here, in their secret little hovel.

She could conjure a small pine tree for them to put his wrapped chess set beneath, with some blown glass baubles to hang together, or a popcorn-and-cranberry garland to string. Could maybe talk Granny into sparing them a few servings of the feast. Some mulled cider. She could tell them the story of A Christmas Carol (she knows it by heart, now), or Frosty the Snowman (she knows that one, too), or Rudolph and Hermey (Henry’s favorite).

It could be… sweet.

It would certainly be less lonely.

It’s probably a terrible idea, but she acquiesces and tells him, “The Eve only.”

Spending the holidays together seems to be tradition, after all.

“We can sneak away here while everyone else is up at that damnable ball,” she reasons. "It’ll go too late for a young boy, anyway. We can have our little Christmas Eve, and then you’ll take him back to the castle, and you’ll tuck him into bed, and he’ll wake up in the morning and spend Christmas day with his family.”

Robin grins, pleased that he’s won this one, no doubt. He reaches for a hunk of cheese, and asks, “And you? Who will you spend Christmas morning with?”

Herself, her cat, and her broken heart. That’s the truth of it.

Still, she manages to force a small smile when she tells him, “I think I’d like to be alone. I’m sure I’ll be poor company. I’d like to spend Christmas Day with my son—or the memory of him, anyway. Are you going to badger me about that, too?”

“No,” he swears, shaking his head and holding up his hands, the picture of surrender. “I know you need your solitude, milady; I won’t begrudge you that, nor your grief.”

“Thank you.”

“But I will expect presents—for the both of us.”

She’d looked away for a moment, but she glances back at that, brow knit, and finds him smirking again.

“If we’re to have a Christmas here, let’s have a proper one. Gifts all around.”

Regina looks down at the little collection of figurines on the table, a smile blooming on her face as she imagines them wrapped and ready, surrounded by a small collection of parcels under a magically conjured tree.

Roland will be easy—little boys are much the same no matter what realm they hail from. But Robin… Well, she’ll think of something. She has time. And a good thing, too, because she can’t just give him any old trinket; she needs to repay him for the gift he’s already given her—the fruits of his damnable persistence in pursuing her friendship. She’ll have to come up with something meaningful, something heartfelt.

She feels a tiny ripple of excitement at the challenge, and thinks once again how grateful she is for this idiot thief and the many ways in which he’s proven a blessing in disguise.

He’s still waiting for a response, so she nods, and tells him, “Alright, then. Gifts all around.”

For the first time all year, she finds herself looking forward to a holiday. She might even enchant that little tree of theirs with a magical dusting of snow.


End file.
